


III. Documentary Evidence:  Pages from The Falcon's Notebook

by twistedchick



Series: Life, Refracted [3]
Category: Primeval
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, affairs of the heart and affairs of state, canon-level violence, life refracted, satire of 'important' biographies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-27
Updated: 2010-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-07 14:10:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedchick/pseuds/twistedchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few entries from Sir James Lester's private journals that were previously omitted from publication, ranging from his Oxford days until he took control of the ARC.  As part III of Life, Refracted, this is a companion piece to The Selkie's Lover, and may not make much sense without it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	III. Documentary Evidence:  Pages from The Falcon's Notebook

>   
> A note from the editor of the second edition1:
> 
> The entries below were excluded from the earlier publication of Lord James Peregrine Lester's annotated journals. In some cases, at the time of first publication, the relevance between the personal incidents he relates and later, more public events was unknown. The entries were contained in two small notebooks, which had been put aside as unimportant since neither was part of his official journals. Since then, further study of the then Sir James Lester's life, particularly before his lengthy term as Prime Minister, have brought about new understanding of the importance of even the earliest entries in his private journals, and thus this second edition includes them all.
> 
> Here follow the previously omitted entries:

  


* * *

  
From Vol. 1: Rising into the Wind 

April 16 — Grandmother is matchmaking again. You'd think she'd notice that I'm busy enough up at Oxford to preclude the possibility of marriage, not to mention that I have no intention of setting up a household before I have achieved something with which to support it. (As it is, my sex life is excellent, varied, and none of her business; I see no need to marry.) At any rate, she has required my presence at a luncheon to be given for a number of her friends' grandchildren – and since her friends include Her Majesty, there's no way I can get out of it. Fortunately, the grandchildren involved are likely to be within a few years of my own age, so it might be bearable.

May 25 – Grandmother's luncheon was less dreadful than I expected. There was the usual gaggle of girls for her to throw at me, but fortunately none of them were 'the marrying type.' Most were either in the midst of their University years or following occupations that sounded interesting. I spent some time talking with Lucinda, who has started her own bookstore, concentrating on political works of a feminist nature, and who came only because Grandmother is her mother's godmother. She and I had an enjoyable discussion of the future of the Labour Party. I also met Marjorie, who is reading modern languages at Cambridge, and Anne, who is reading history, with an eye to joining the diplomatic corps. The royals who attended were personable but forgettable; none said anything worth repeating, but they seldom do, barring interviews with deplorable publications. Still, time spent politely with people who may have influence, however slight, isn't necessarily wasted. And the food was good, but Grandmother's food always is. When I do set up household, I want to clone her chef, Lucien.

The surprise at the luncheon was Grandmother's best friend's great-niece, Helen Farquhar, who is reading zoology at Cambridge and who spends her weekends rock-scrambling. I asked her if she knew who climbed the Tower during the Guy Fawkes fireworks last year and managed to escape without being caught by the Plod; she shook her head, but with a look in her eye that tells me that she did it. She is what my grandmother would call 'a spirited gel'. I gave her my number at Oxford and asked her to call if she was in the area, so we could meet for tea or lunch. She is a scholar; she understands some of the exigencies involved in writing one's dissertation on international politics and the devaluation of the pound.

September 30 – Lunch with Helen Farquhar. Her focus is paleontology; pity, as I suspect I won't see much of her when she enters her profession. I hope to go into the Home Office, like Sebastian [older brother – Editor] while she is scraping mud off old bones somewhere with a more beastly climate than the City. I'll be better dressed and perhaps paid, but she may be having more fun. Not a fair exchange, I think.

November 10 – When I have a steady paycheck coming in, I will wear the best-tailored suits I can afford, not these off-the-peg disasters. Ran smack into a woman on the stairs on my way to lecture, and knocked all of her books out of her hands. When I stopped to help her pick them up, I was jostled by the crowd and ended up spilling coffee over both of us. She accepted my apology graciously but I must have looked like the country curate's ragbag. Must get a better jacket, at least. Her name's Melissa Charteris.

November 12 – Lunch with Melissa. Very sweet woman, also very classy; she showed up in vintage couture that fitted as if it had been made for her. She accepted my invitation for dinner at the end of term.

November 25 – Received a copy of the new book on Disraeli from Melissa. Looks fascinating.

December 10 – Melissa coming for dinner tomorrow. Think! What can I cook? Or would a restaurant be better?

December 12 – Dinner with Melissa at the Savoy last night; I cooked breakfast today. Very satisfactory, all around.

January 10 – Ran into Helen Farquhar in the City, took her to lunch. She's considering applying for postgraduate studies at the university in Bristol. Good luck to her. Most enjoyable afternoon together. Pity we can't take long luncheons like that more often.

March 12 – With Melissa at the Symphony. She cooked breakfast. Lovely.

April 30 – Helen in the City again. Had a bite with her at a pub and then saw her to the late train after a most enjoyable time. She has quite the intellect, and stamina as well as gracefulness. Not much chance of anything more long term; she is to begin postgraduate work in Bristol at the end of this summer. In the meantime, she plans to scale rocky hillsides in France and Germany. I will miss our occasional afternoons together, lying in the sunshine afterward, discussing everything in the world.

July 15 – Vacation with Melissa at the shore, and on her sister Claudia's boat. Wonderful.

October 1– Have acquired a position at the Home Office as an extremely minor functionary, assistant to the assistant to the Minister for Internal Affairs. Ho-hum. But it will lead to better things, I have no doubt, and give me the opportunity to observe while being unobserved, often an advantage in political life.

 

From Vol. 2: The Politician's Apprentice

December 20 – Grandmother informed me over tea that she had become weary of waiting for me to reproduce so she could sort out her will. I was delighted to inform her that she need not delay any longer, as I had proposed to Melissa the week before and we are to be married a year from now, a Christmas wedding. We are also planning to start the family sooner rather than later, my prospects at the Home Office having improved with the last two promotions. Grandmother, overjoyed, informed me that as a wedding present she was deeding over to me Beaumont, her favorite country house, the one built by her own great-grandfather. Fortunately, it was updated by her father and then by mine, so it is in reasonably good shape, without the leaky roof or poor plumbing situation of Raspberry Hill, her summer cottage. Beaumont itself is smaller than Raspberry Hill – at least one wing of RH was closed when the Cavaliers argued with the Roundheads there and caused some damage – but it has more land, and the income from farming is sufficient to pay ordinary expenses. It is a most generous gift, and I am deeply appreciative. It's also a good thing that Melissa likes the country, of course.

[A year later -- Editor]

December 22 – Married to Melissa at Westminster, with all the usual people there, including appropriate royals. Honeymoon in the Mediterranean for a month – Greece and Italy, with stops at Gibraltar, Malta and Rhodes. Of course the Home Office expects me to check in occasionally, but it will be only occasionally. Some parts of my life are not owned by HM's government.

[Two years pass – Editor]

April 23 – Melissa delivered of twins, Matthew and Julian, six pounds three ounces and six pounds five ounces. All are in splendid shape. Named them for my two uncles.

December 25 – Grandmother, who has become unfortunately dotty, informed me that my chance to marry Helen Farquhar had passed. "She's gone and married some Strathclyde Scot," were her exact words. Apparently Lady Barbara, Helen's great-aunt, was rather taken with the new husband, a professor at Central Metropolitan University where Helen teaches, but Grandmother is made of sterner stuff. "He'll never amount to anything." I pointed out that, as the man is a full professor in his early thirties, he already has amounted to something. She would have nothing of it. "That girl's made for bigger things. Say what you will of this professor, he'll never be in Parliament." Neither will I, as I have no plans to stand for election and I'm unlikely to succeed to the family title, which is still four people away, residing in my unmarried elderly uncle who has no interest in politics.

[Four years pass – Editor]

August 18 – Melissa delivered of Silvia Elaine, eight pounds, named for her mother and mine. Both doing splendidly. Boys very excited, though Julian wanted a puppy instead.

September 15 – Promoted to second assistant to the Home Office Minster – no longer one of the crowd of assistants – with commensurate salary increase and benefits. Delighted that I will be able to stay in the country more, as I will be required to travel to various counties for meetings instead of staying up in the City. Not that I'm fond of meetings.

October 20 – Melissa's organizational work promoting regional organic good has received accolades from the press and from regional fine restaurants. She's very pleased. The boys enjoy grubbing in the dirt while she visits farms; the farmers appreciate the increased demand for their products; the baby gets to visit Melissa's mother. Good things all around.

From Vol. 3: On the Wings of the Storm

December 28 – Grandmother has been watching the annual spate of year-end celebrity roundups, and somehow has confused my appearance with that of an actor whose romantic troubles (so to speak) were headline news this year. It's absurd. I don't even like his movies, and I really don't look like him, but try explaining that to Grandmother when she's taking me to task for not treating my mistress better. Hopeless to point out that I am married with three children, and far too busy to support a mistress even if I wanted one. Oh, well. At least it afforded some of the cousins a good laugh. Always happy to be of service – not.

March 5 – Received a call from Helen Farquhar – now Helen Cutter – asking for a meeting to discuss animal depredations in the Forest of Dean. Since I cannot get out of the City because of pre-Summit meetings, they will come here. If it were any other couple I would put them off – it's a horribly busy time – but I know Helen well enough to have faith that it's not some trumped-up wild goose chase.

March 8 – Met with Helen, her husband Professor Nick Cutter and their (apparently joint) student assistant Stephen Hart. They brought indisputable photographic and physical evidence of dangerous large animals traveling through and sometimes out of the Forest of Dean. All they wanted were contact numbers in case of emergency, and someone official to back them up when they call for help, which I am glad to do. It is a public safety issue, after all. I may be a fairly minor functionary, but I do function. Cutter appears sound and largely unflappable, his assistant knowledgeable and capable. Good to see Helen with people of her own caliber; would hate to see that remarkable intellect wasted. Looking forward to seeing what they find there. I've discounted many legends about the old forests; perhaps some of them have a grounding in truth.

April 2 – Nick Cutter called for assistance. Helen is missing in the Forest of Dean. According to Stephen Hart, who followed the trail, and the special forces troops there, she was being chased by a fast, large, hostile animal and disappeared through an 'anomaly' to escape it. Hart took two blood samples, which I have delivered personally to the laboratory used by the Home Office, as its employees understand confidentiality. There is no way to know whether Helen escaped her pursuer. Cutter badly broken up, his team members nearly as bad. Not sure how to handle the publicity on this, should it occur. Will speak with Gordonson concerning policies on missing persons who might actually reappear. Certainly will avoid media coverage for now.

June 16 – The Queen is dead, along with most of the royal family. So are so many of my colleagues, the PM, the Home Secretary and others. Bombs at the Queen's annual birthday festivities at Buckingham Palace – I can scarcely write the words; the images scorched into my mind are horror enough. Our new queen is her granddaughter, Zara Philips, who has a horrible head cold and stayed home, poor girl. For lack of anyone else available – the rest were either in hospital or dead – I accompanied the Yeoman of the Guard – the one remaining Yeoman of the Guard – to wake her and tell her that she had succeeded to the throne. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done.

We left the guards outside to secure the building and stand guard in the hallway. HM came to the door in an old robe that I will not describe, looking exhausted; the explosion had woken her but she had not turned on the TV, for which I am grateful. She let us in and went to dress. The Yeoman, Mr. Seddon, made tea for her and warmed up some soup, while I looked out the window of her flat at the smoke rising across the city.

I am not good at this kind of thing – I doubt anyone is – but there was no one else available; the others were caring for the dead, tending to the wounded and attempting to secure the continuance of government. For the present, for all intents and purposes, I am acting Home Secretary, a job I have never wanted.

When she emerged, dressed, she looked calm although it was clear what an effort she was making. She sat down, and we sat across from her at the dining room table, as Mr. Seddon poured tea and encouraged her to take a little hot soup. Mr. Seddon and I then told her what had occurred. I had been concerned that we should have brought a doctor, as the news would have put anyone into shock, but that wasn't necessary at the time. I told her what was known about the cause of the explosions, and she stopped eating, and set the spoon down to ask about individuals she knew. As we went down the list of the people attending the event besides her family, fresh tears arose, as so many of those killed were her friends and acquaintances. She did not apologize for her tears.

When she had finished eating, we asked her to bring whatever she would need and come with us to Kensington Palace; everything in the flat will be crated and brought to her there. Kensington had been chosen because its furnishings are less personalized; many apartments there are reserved for guests, including visiting royalty, and it is already secure. This will have to do until the staff can rearrange the furnishings to include whatever she may wish to keep, and remove anything she dislikes that belonged to the late royals who lived there.

HM paused, looking around the room, went into the loo to pack some toiletries and into the bedroom to pack some clothes, refusing any offer of assistance. When she emerged, wearing a cardigan around her shoulders despite the warm temperatures, I picked up my mobile and ordered that a doctor be available at Kensington to treat her for shock when we arrived, and we left, myself carrying her suitcases, Mr. Seddon providing security until we reached the transportation downstairs.

I have a ferocious headache. It does not matter.

At Kensington, Dr. Beattie was there to meet her; she knows him, and went off with him to be checked out. I turned over responsibility for the monarch's safety to Mr. Seddon and Dr. Beattie and left to return to the Home Office with the remnant of my staff and colleagues.

I am determined to support her to the best of my ability. Of all the succession, she is among those least prepared for such a situation; she was so far down the list that it was assumed by all that she could simply pursue her interests in equitation and so on. Now she has been thrust into the maelstrom, as are we all, but her job is the most public: the Queen is Britain in a way that the Home Secretary is not. Poor girl. If I were one to weep, it would be for her as much as for my slain colleagues; since I am not, I will bend my efforts to finding the criminals.

I cannot let myself think of what we have lost, not only in the persons of those who have died, but also the loss of the continuity of deep knowledge of government that resided in the Home Secretary, the PM, and the other experienced civil servants and officials. We have also lost the counsel of the late Queen, who had a unique view of government and who stayed on top of many issues in ways that are seldom appreciated. The new Queen has not had the benefit of any government-related training; she was never thought to need it, what with all the other children and grandchildren in direct line of succession.

Phoned Melissa; she agrees that she will keep the children at the farm rather than coming up to town as we had planned. It is a good thing my office contains a couch; that's where I will sleep this week. I sent Phyllis over to the flat to bring back a change of clothing or two, then went directly into a briefing when I would rather have been going over the latest intelligence.

A press release has been dispatched to The Times and the BBC from the press office; every news outlet and newspaper in the country, perhaps most in the world, will be showing the same two photos tonight, of grandmother and granddaughter, on the front page.

[Several pages are missing at this point in the journal, apparently cut out of the journal near the binding. – Editor]

June 23 – What a week; I have remained in town the whole of it, staying in touch with Melissa only by mobile. The office journal will have to do for the chronology and the history books; [Several lines heavily scratched out. – Editor]

The bombers were more intelligent than most gave them credit for. They had established a refuge in the London sewer tunnels, accessible through workmen's doors from underground tube station platforms, giving them transportation and theoretically a quick escape – but they had not reckoned with the shock wave from their explosion affecting underground utilities, or the Tube itself. The water main break flooded Victoria Station, which was evacuated; the bomb dogs stationed at the station sniffed everyone coming out and caught one man, who broke while being questioned; he gave up the names of three others. One had made it as far as the station in Hemel Hempstead before being captured; two more drowned in their hiding place in the sewers and were washed out of the tunnel by the flood and into the Thames, where their bodies were recovered. Several hours more to get anything from the HH man, until he learned of the drownings. Then he rolled over on their contacts within the catering company, their suppliers, and the Yard started pulling them all in. At that point I went into my office and lay down for a few hours rest on the couch; until then I had been on my feet the entire time, though I had taken a break to shower and change once. And aside from mopping up, at that point, the threat was over; the emergency – cleaning out the station, fixing the water mains – continued but did not require me. When I awoke, some kind soul had put a blanket over me and left food on the credenza. I arose, ate, and went into two straight days of meetings to hammer out revised and augmented security for the country.

And now the public hysteria over security (or its lack, or its effectiveness) has given way to mourning. The nation is in the midst of a round of funerals and memorial services, the likes of which have not been seen since active wartime. In the midst of it all I have personally attended several each day for my friends and colleagues; there are no words for the emotions that arise from attending the obsequies of friends while seeking their killers. Queen Zara has set aside a portion of the devastated ground for a memorial for those who died there; privately, she told me she could not imagine returning that area to casual use. Everyone who has died in the blast, whether within or outside the wall, will be listed there – so as to include the guardmen killed by the force of the blast between the bars of the gate. My staff is keeping track of this. I am to report to Her Majesty tomorrow on the new security procedures being put into effect; I understand that she also wishes to give me some small reward for the work of the past week. If something pleases Her Majesty, I will agree with it; she has little enough to please her now, only unending sorrow and work. It will be a long time before she can simply go to the barn, saddle her favorite horse and ride; however, I will make sure that her horses are brought to the nearest royal estate where they can live, so that she might be able to ride safely when she can snatch a few hours from official duties. I am not the only one who would want to lift some of her burdens, only the most visible, when I would rather be back doing the necessary work that must be done without visibility.

But she will never be allowed to ride alone again, for which I am sorry.

June 24 – I was surprised to see Melissa in her best suit there ahead of me when I arrived at Windsor; I had thought this would be simply a business visit for myself with the Queen. Instead, both of us were ushered into the small chapel there, where Queen Zara called me forward and knighted me, Sir James Peregrine Lester, "for my services to Crown and country." I was flabbergasted, which I seldom am, and humbled, ditto. She met briefly over tea with both of us and spoke informally of her sorrow, the ongoing effort to find replacements for so many cabinet ministers and other officials, and her gratitude for my work.

After Melissa left (to be taken home in an official car, as she was brought here), the Queen said, "I understand your unwillingness to continue to serve in so public a role, Sir James. Have you thought about what you would prefer to do, once matters are on a smoother track?" I told her I thought I might be most helpful in charge of matters to do with security and public safety within the country, particularly in the western counties. She asked me to elaborate, and I mentioned my concern for the need to oversee certain sorts of university-based research projects that involved national security, as well as the oversight of other internal-security matters.

"What part of the western counties?" Specifically, the Forest of Dean, though other areas might be involved. Then she asked me to tell her what, exactly, was going on in the Forest of Dean, where she used to ride with some of her friends.

I have been known to prevaricate with other department heads, but I don't believe in lying to the Queen. I told her. I told her everything, including the disappearance of Helen Farquhar Cutter, the anomalies, the research, and the theories that Professor Nick Cutter had aired.

When Her Majesty listens with such attentiveness, putting all else aside, it is difficult to realize that she is younger than I am by several years. She has the air of her grandmother, whose knowledge and attention to detail were said to be legendary among those who worked for her – though one can never know about these things, considering that every published memoir will be dissected by the Palace for any imagined slur or possible lack of deference.

"I understand," she said, after refilling both her teacup and mine and offering me a second chocolate biscuit. "It is one thing to take the chance of occasional animals wandering through the area and going home again, or being dealt with by our military. The serious aspects of time travel are another thing altogether. So far, we only know that animals have come through; this does not mean that military troops might not come through from another time, perhaps from a future we cannot imagine."

I felt rooted to the couch upon which I sat. She had summarized the issue at hand without my having to describe it.

"It seems to me that we need to do better than that." She cleared her throat and paused, thinking. "As monarch, I wish you to create an Anomaly Research Centre, and I wish you to be placed in charge of it. You know, better than anyone, what kind of power these anomalies could give to the wrong hands. You are to see that this does not happen." She smiled at me, and was a young woman again. "I trust you, James. Sir James. My first knight."

"Thank you, ma'am. I hope never to fail you or disappoint your confidence in me."  
For one wild moment I wished that I could be more of a courtier, like my childhood hero, Sir Walter Raleigh, rather than a staid civil servant – though I would prefer to avoid residing in the Tower, thank you. She put one hand over mine and pressed it briefly.

"I have seen you do your best. I could want nothing more from any man." She rose, and I stood as well. "Please keep me informed on what comes through the anomalies; I should be very interested to hear what happens. I should also like to have your Professor Cutter and his staff put in charge of research and exploration, as they are experienced and best suited to their jobs."

"Ma'am." How does one ask the queen where the money will come from?

"The anomaly research is a government-university project, is it not? I believe the Crown can afford to provide whatever support is necessary. And thank you, very much, Sir James."

I bowed – how could I not? -- and stood to be ushered out by her secretary.

Once back at the Home Office, I observed the pile of incoming papers on my desk, and called in my own assistant, whom I told to send the majority of the incoming to Felix Pennyworth, who had taken on my former responsibilities in the past few days. With that gone, I started to list the tasks ahead: get designer, approve design for new ARC building(s), hire and create new ARC administration and research staff, not to mention military presence, oversee other university research projects until someone else could be found to do that part of the job.

It is an overwhelming amount of responsibility. I cannot fail her.

July 5 – If government alone were to be creating the ARC, the project would be mired for years in committees and subcommittees before coming before Parliament. Since it is being done on the Queen's Order, it is done far more quickly and without so much dithering; that is one advantage of the Constitution of 1937 over the previous method of operating. Parliament could, if the members wished, overrule her but on matters of public security right now they are extremely unlikely to do so, considering public sentiment. Any Member who opposed an effort to increase security would be out on his ear in the next election; also, the fact that they need not vote an apportionment is in its favor. No one will tell Her Majesty that she can't spend her money as she wishes. If she wishes to purchase a research and security institute for the country with some fraction of the money she has inherited from her family, who died in large part because of inadequate security, none of them will stand in her way.

And so I am in the happy position of reviewing architectural designs, considering the structure of departments and contemplating hiring personnel, as well as overseeing all other government-funded university research projects. I fully intend to hand technical oversight for as many of them as possible to qualified Anomalies Research Centre personnel, so that I will have more time for ARC-related research. Perhaps both halves of my job eventually will be so coordinated that I might be able to sit back and watch others do all the work, though I doubt that would actually happen.

It seems that the best architectural firms now are using the sort of computer drawing programs that make designs of the sort we need much easier than in the past. The bid process was expedited at a speed shocking to anyone who has ever dealt with government. The first full set of designs, printed on the usual large-format paper, is on my desk as I write this, the various areas of the buildings lightly sketched in, details to be added as may best suit the departments who will be occupying those areas. I'm sure I have no great knowledge of all that's required for laboratories, or how best to outfit the facilities for military personnel who will be stationed there. I have put in several calls to Professor Cutter, but a different assistant than the one I met has been answering the phone; in response to my queries, he eventually said that Cutter was in Scotland with Mr. Hart at the funeral of Mr. Hart's sister, who with her fiancé had been killed in the blast. I asked that the message be passed along when they returned. Certainly I would like to speak to him as soon as possible, but there's no need to interrupt them at this time.

July 6 – Apparently news travels fast. I returned from a late lunch to find Cutter and Hart very near to breaking down doors to get to me, in response to a newspaper account that had mentioned 'nationalizing joint government-university research projects'. Fortunately, word had gone out among the staff that they were to be allowed in, or they would never have got past the first guard post. Their faces, when they saw the plans, were comically startled; both agreed to stay on in the new ARC, and they agreed to forward the names of persons they know who might be suitable to other positions within the building. Excellent.

The Personal Journals of Lord James Peregrine Lester,  revised and edited by Sarah Abigail Maitland-Temple. Oxford University Press. Second Edition. 2060.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my long-suffering beta readers, zana16, alyse and siliconshaman, for Britpicking far beyond the call of friendship. All errors are mine. This story does take place in ARC Universe, not in the world we live in, so certain aspects of British government and history may look unfamiliar or odd.


End file.
